She Needs a Little Help with the Agony
by ScaryElwes
Summary: Surgery helps her stay beautiful. Zydrate helps her with the physical agony. But what if there's a separate reason for her being so hooked?


**A/N: Hello everyone. Yes, I'm probably disappointing a few chainshippers right now, as I've been promising a "happy" Adam/Lawrence fic for a few weeks now. I promise you guys, I am working on it. Anyways, my first Repo! fic, and I'm actually pretty excited for it. Sorry if it's poorly proofread. It was done in a slight rush. Enjoy yourselves, y'all. ;)**

**Disclaimer: If I can't own Saw, I doubt that Repo! The Genetic Opera will be any different. *pouts***

**She Needs a Little Help with the Agony**

She can't remember the last time she's run this fast. Then again, she can't remember the last time she's run at all. It's not like she enjoys it, obviously. It's not like there's anything in her daily schedule that calls for her to run.

Especially if it's with tears burning at her vision and breaths that leave her lungs in short, frenzied _whooshes_.

But clearly that mustn't be the case now. Because all of the above is happening, and she's doing it willingly.

She rushes, sometimes staggers, through the maze-like streets, her stiletto boots clicking clumsily on the concrete. She has to shove aside a few people that are in her way, and she receives a large array of curse words and fingers in the process. Some even recognize her, but their surprised joy is quickly killed when she simply rushes right past them. She hurtles through a group of drunken men, and they call after her in boisterous voices that don't even reach her ears.

She can't see anyone; they may as well not exist to her. Because they're all pawns. Pointless, disposable pawns. And they're only trying to get between her and the relief she so desperately craves, relief from the tauntingly soothing voice that floats through her head.

_Oh Amber, honey, you're beautiful._

She cries out, and pushes herself harder.

Her mother. Her real mother, not the pathetic replacement that had broken her father's heart and then got herself killed. Her real mother had been gorgeous. She'd had long, luscious mahogany hair, hair that she herself had run her pudgy fingers through so many times as a little girl. It had always smelled so sweet, drenched in an aroma that couldn't be bottled.

Every time she thinks of her mother, her hair is always the first thing she remembers. She remembers how every day she'd come home from preschool, leap into her mother's arms and securely braid her fingers into the shining tresses. Or whenever she'd awake, crying from a nightmare, the hair was the first thing that touched her face, soothing her into silence before her mother's lips even touched her forehead.

Her mother refused to cut it, she remembers. She'd let it grow out until it was a curly mane that reached her waist. As the surgery craze grew, she changed the rest of her features. Like her eye color, her breast size, and once, even her nose. But never her hair. It didn't need changing, anyways. It was beautiful the way it was.

She remembers one night, when her mother had been preparing for a gala. She had watched her apply her makeup with wide eyes, eyes that were ice blue at the time.

"Momma?" she had said.

Her mother had looked briefly away from the mirror, eyeliner on only one lid.

"Yes baby?"

She'd looked down at her hands then, inspected the gooey black polish on her fingernails. She'd kept her eyes down when she asked, "When can I change how I look? Like you and Pavi?"

Indeed, her older brother had already changed the shape of his cheekbones quite a few times.

The woman had looked back at her daughter, this time her full attention on the child.

"Now why would you want to change the way you look, Amber?"

For a little while, she hadn't answered. Just continued to gaze at her nails, scratched an itch on her knobby knee.

"I don't know," she'd said finally, her voice meek with shyness. "I just want to. I don't like the way I look. I want my hair like yours, Momma."

With that, she'd instinctively curled a lock around her finger. At the time it had been blonde, the only blonde hair in a family of brunettes. And she had hated it.

Before she knew it, her mother's soft hands were on her cheeks, her thumbs rubbing circular motions on the apples. With her head in her hands, the mother had gently forced her child's face upward, so she had nothing to look into but her eyes.

"Oh Amber, honey, you're beautiful. You don't need surgery. You're perfect, just the way you are. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise."

And with that, she had pulled her into a tight embrace, planting kisses into her hair.

It's the fondest memory she has of her mother. She keeps it locked up tightly in the deepest pit of her mind. But she never gives herself the pleasure of pulling it out and inspecting it. She feels as though she doesn't deserve that indulgence.

Yet it always seems to creep up on her when she least expects it, and throw her into a world of longing and sorrow. It breaks her, every time, and it continues to torture her until she's literally running after relief. Like she is now.

The years had flown by, but her mother had continued to tell her of her perfection. Instead of _I love you_, it was _You're beautiful_. She had seemed to say it every day, in short little sentences, as if the first hundred times hadn't convinced her enough.

But one day, though, they abruptly halted. The sweet nothings simply died, like the woman who had said them. It was a failed heart transplant, according to her father. They had removed her original heart, but had somehow never managed to place the designer one into her empty chest. She had died on the operating table, drugged out on anesthesia and Zydrate.

She had become numb after that. Harsh reality was introduced. Teenage angst came along. She'd soon realized just how much she'd relied on her mother. Soon, she'd realized that she _needed _to be told that she was beautiful.

And who would tell her when she didn't believe it herself?

The solution, once she had thought of it, was surprisingly simple.

She merely had to replace her loving mother with gorgeous hair with a skilled surgeon who knew his way with a scalpel.

The first thing she had changed was her hair, of course. The pitiful yellow became a rich brown, a color she had craved since she was a little girl.

And, for short periods of time, she feels beautiful once more.

A perk of going constantly under the knife was Zydrate. She had soon discovered, after her first few surgeries, that it didn't only numb the agony that was her skin. It completely blew her mind out, until there was _nothing_.

Every time that glowing ecstasy enters her bloodstream, she forgets how to think, how to remember, and most importantly, how to _feel_. The memory of her mother doesn't even exist in the world of Zydrate. And she loves it. Because, for a little while, she's not numb anymore, she's simply high, and every type of pain is washed away.

She needs surgery because she needs to be beautiful. And she needs Zydrate because she needs to forget _why_ she needs to be beautiful. And so far, it's working pretty well.

Her synthetic heart literally aches. It's only a few days old, so it's not used to pumping this much blood all at once. But she ignores it, as the pounding in her seemingly exhausted mind is so much stronger.

Finally, she finds him, in his usual alleyway. He's lounging in a dumpster as if it's a throne, his feet propped up and his hands behind his head.

She stomps up to the dumpster and pounds the metal with her fist, creating a hollow bang that echoes all around them. He doesn't even startle. He only looks up, eyebrows lazily rose, as if he's only half interested. She takes him all in: the white skin, the dull eyes, and the greasy long hair that's sloppily pulled back. Everything about him screams _uncaring_.

"Give me a hit," she demands, her breathing still quick, and her voice dangerously low.

He gazes at her unblinkingly, sucking his teeth. He really does look like he couldn't care less, and it irks her. Can't he see that she's in agony?

"Pay up, bitch," he replies, and he's about to close his eyes and lay his head back when she screams.

"_I said give me a fucking hit!" _

This time he does startle, and he looks at her in both surprise and amusement.

She lifts her leather skirt and thrusts her leg forward, revealing the previous puncture marks that dot her inner thigh. Without another word, he reaches into his coat and pulls out his gun, along with the glowing blue euphoria that she ran all this way for. He expertly places the tube of street Zydrate into the gun, and the gun against her thigh.

Muttering nonsense about her owing him a blow or something, the graverobber pulls the trigger.

And instantly, she's thrown into pure ecstasy. She throws her head back and moans quietly. Barely aware of her surroundings, she staggers backwards, until some part of her brain registers the brick wall against her back.

All she can see are the most vivid images, the brightest shades of all colors of the rainbow, most notably blue. It robs her of breath, and suddenly, she's happy and peaceful and _oh my god it's so beautiful can I stay here forever oh god oh god oh god…_

The physical pain of her surgery is gone, though once again, she doesn't register it. She can only revel in the fact that her mother's voice is gone, the memories are gone, and the agony is gone. Not forever, but at least a little while.

For a little while, she's beautiful again. And for a little while, she's forgotten why she needs to be.

**As far as I can tell, the movie says nothing about the mother to Rotti's children, so I took great advantage of that, as you can see. Reviews are greatly appreciated. **

**Thanks for reading, you lovely people, you. (:**


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